


Campelot

by secace



Category: Arthurian Literature - Fandom, Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Exorcisms, Gen, discord happened, dont worry about it, theres gonna be more chapters theres so much lore, yes its a summer camp au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24165628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secace/pseuds/secace
Summary: “Alright everyone. That was a really good exorcism.” Gawain clapped his hands, and immediately got their attention, a trick no one else had quite mastered. “Let’s get it cleaned up and then head over to the campfire. Lance-- er, no, Elaine could you put out the candles? No one touch anything till she's done that, please.”
Relationships: Background, Gawain/Lancelot du Lac (Arthurian)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> firstly shoutout to ell2 for the title, and shoutout to ass for most of the... worldbuilding lol
> 
> dark shoutout to ass bc i shared a section of this, like the first fourth, with them and they lost their minds over my typo on bediveres name, so instead of changing it i underlined it. so.

“Guess who just lost 20 points!” Gawain exclaimed triumphantly, bursting into the art room he knew would be empty, save for--

“Cabin Listenesse?” Guessed Lancelot, glancing up from the various paints he was organizing. Or trying to organize. Mostly he was getting covered in paint.

“Yup,” Gawain confirmed smugly, popping the ‘p’. He sat on the table among the paints, Lancelot continuing to ‘organize’ as he related the events.

“I caught Lamorak trying to sabotage the boats. Which was so stupid, he knows the boathouse is Orkney territory.”

“Wow, “ said Lancelot. Whether he was responding to this vile act of mischief, or the fact that his hands were now covered in red paint after a plastic container left in the sun a little too long exploded, was unclear.

“You need some help with this? Aggs is watching my cabin.”

Agravaine was very patently not a councillor. He ran errands and helped with paperwork in the main house, and was only lured into camp activities by bribery, trickery or other coercion. The last time he had been forced to act as a councillor, a picnic bench had been destroyed, Dinadan was pushed in the lake, and Lamorak broke his arm. The rest of the Orkneys found this wildly amusing and considered it a victory. 

“Poor Agravaine,” Lancelot said.

Gawain pondered this. “Yeah, you’re right, I should get back. Immediately.” Gawain pulled him in for a quick kiss, which nonetheless left his cheek and hand smeared with red paint, then hopped off the table.

“Try not to get lost in the woods while I'm gone!”

“It was only once,” Lancelot protested. “Well, twice. Three-- oh God, four? Fi-”

He was still counting when the door to the art room, which as the councillor in charge of art direction was his only haven and domain, shut behind Gawain. Leaving his boyfriend to the Joyous Gard, (why the art room was called this was unclear) Gawain set off across the camp to relieve his brother.

Things were not going well at Cabin Orkney, temporarily headed by Agravaine. It was quiet as Gawain approached, which was a very bad sign. The scene inside was a grim one.

An occult ritual appeared to be in progress. There were candles lit all around, which in a shoddily constructed, deeply inflammable wooden cabin was the opposite of a good idea. The lights were off and the children were gathered around, busy with their dark purpose, which was drawing odd symbols on the walls and listening to the quiet but earnest instruction of their cherubic high priest, who had one half of a waterlogged King James Edition in one hand.

“Hey, guys. Hey Aggs. Tied to a chair huh? Odd way to spend an afternoon.” Gawain said calmly from the doorway, turning to the leader of this little rebellion. “What are you up to, Galahad? You know this isn’t your cabin, kiddo.”

“We are conducting an exorcism,” Galahad explained. 

“I'm sorry!” Percival said, dropping the red marker he was using to draw a shaky pentagram on the window. He was the youngest camper after Morien, and by far the most impressionable. He believed that Gawain personally told the sun when to rise, and was currently about to cry.

“It’s okay, It’s okay! You’re not in trouble,” Gawain said quickly. “No one is in trouble. In fact, I see no reason not to continue. We just have to make a few changes--”

“What the fu-- No we are not going to continue!” Agravaine protested.

“Don't worry, Aggs. I'm sure we can come to an arrangement. Firstly,” he began snuffing the candles and putting them in a box, destined for a high shelf, “these are the wrong kind of candles for an exorcism, I'm afraid we can’t use these. Mordred, would you untie Agravaine, please?”

Reluctantly, Mordred did so, as Gawain surveyed the damage. Nothing that was unfixable.

“Alright. So an exorcism has to be performed at night. I'm going to go into town, get some proper candles, then I'll teach you how to make real occult symbols. Galahad can act as the priest--”

“I have holy water,” Galahad broke in excitedly.

“Excellent! So, let’s get this all cleaned up and then after dinner we can try again.”

The campers were set to scrubbing the windows, putting away markers and moving furniture back into place, as Agravaine, now freed, fled back to the main house.

Gawain left only long enough to catch Elaine, who by now was done with the archery lessons and unoccupied, to watch the campers for half an hour while he went into town. He took his uncle’s car, knowing that the likelihood of Arthur leaving camp for anything other than tax reasons or a Jimmy Buffet concert was shamefully low.

“So,” said the cashier at 7/11, surveying the arrangement of goods laid out before him. “What is it this time, Gawain? Catching bigfoot again? Building another trebuchet?”

“Exorcism.” Gawain gestured to the family size container of gummy worms, “except those, they’re for me.”

“Who's the lucky demon?”

“You are. If you wouldn’t mind that is?”

Priamus did not mind. He was very excited to put his community theatre experience to work in a faux possession, and drove up with Gawain, brushing up on his Latin all the way.

“Don't worry, I won’t be too scary: I don't want to frighten the kids.”

“Oh, trust me,” Gawain grinned, “If anyone should be scared, it’s you.”

Priamus was not off-put by these words. He wasn’t off-put by much. 

Gawain arrived just in time to help get the campers ready for dinner, and stashed Priamus in the main building, a ramshackle wooden structure into which some pathetic effort had been put to make it resemble a medieval castle. 

The attendants of the camp were abuzz over dinner about the planned after-meal event, and Galahad found himself suddenly the centre of attention. His discomfort with this seemed to be heavily mollified by his excitement, and he was quite happily and incorrectly explaining that they shalt not suffer witches to live to a group of younger campers. Management-- which meant Kay and  Bebivere , with Arthur as the figurehead-- were neither informed nor able in any way to stop this chaos. 

Soon dishes were cleared away, tables were put up, and the outdoor area, paved with notably non-flammable concrete, was converted into a place of ritual. Lancelot made use of what red paint was left to, with Percival and Gareth as assistants, mark the ground with various occult symbols Gawain insisted were real. Candles, much smaller than those from earlier and placed safely in large jars, were arranged in specific and clearly demarcated patterns around a chair.

Finally, Priamus, with a bag over his head, wearing a Campselot sweater, which was only somewhat convincing as an Agravaine disguise, was led out and tied to the chair. 

“He’s taller. That’s not Agravaine,” Mordred pointed out cynically.

“Being possessed makes you change shape,” Gawain said, and that was that. “Alright, Galahad, your show. If you want to stop, just say so and I can step in, okay?”

Galahad nodded solemnly and stepped forward. The rest were safely out of candle range, but to make them feel they were participating, were tasked with chanting. None of them knew any occult songs, so they were chanting the song about killing children show characters which all people under 14 knew instinctively.

“Wow they're getting… really into that chant,” Lancelot noted nervously. 

Dinadan set down his bucket of water-- Gawain had a lot of faith in his youngest brother's ability to cause fires, and had taken precautions-- “Children just like violence, don't worry, they're fine.”

“Huh.” Said Lancelot noncommittally. He was still covered in red paint, and looked a tad like an anxious French Carrie.

Meanwhile, Galahad was showing his natural talent for being a cult leader, really using the King James for all it was worth. The only thing he knew in Latin were the Paternoster and Ave Maria, but he was putting a lot of feeling into them, interspersing recitations with what he felt were relevant bible passages. Priamus was doing some good thrashing, and saying whatever came to his mind in Latin, mainly for the benefit of Gawain, the only other person there that understood him.

He was mostly telling bad jokes, and Gawain was struggling not to laugh, and considering justifying the theological use of rock-throwing at demons. Finally, when Galahad judged that the holy writ had done whatever it was supposed to do, he brought from his pocket a small vial. This they could only presume to be holy water, though why he had it was anyone's guess.

Splashing the contents of the vial on Priamus, who howled accordingly, Galahad made the sign of the cross and stepped back.

“In the name of the father, the son and the holy spirit, get out,” Galahad intoned.

“Honi soit qui mal y pense,” Gawain added helpfully.

“That, also.” The little priest, concluding evidently that they had been successful, stepped back.

“Alright everyone. That was a really good exorcism.” Gawain clapped his hands, and immediately got their attention, a trick no one else had quite mastered. “Let’s get it cleaned up and then head over to the campfire. Lance-- er, no, Elaine could you put out the candles? No one touch anything till she's done that, please.” Gawain finished delegating the cleanup, then untied ‘Agravaine’ and retreated into the main building.

“Agravaine, my darling little brother,” Gawain began, the doors swinging shut behind him. “You are now free of demons.”

“Great,” Agravaine said wretchedly. “I hate you.”

Priamus had the bag removed from his head, and peered around with interest. “So this is the inner sanctum, huh?”

“Yup.” Gawain untied his wrists, and gave him a pat on the back. “Great acting. Good Latin. You fucked up the ablative a couple times, though.”

“Aw, come on. No I didn't.”

“You did.”

Agravaine was out of patience, with his brother, the ablative case, this job, and the world in general. “Dont fucking make me do your job again, Gawain. Seriously. Those kids are fucking awful.”

“You don't think that,” Gawain asserted confidently. He was right.

“Whatever, I'm going to sleep. Maybe you can replace me on a permanent basis,” Agravaine stalked out, presumably to the councillors cabin to sleep. 

Gawain swore lightly. “Help yourself to any of the food, I'm gonna go talk to my brother. You're invited to the campfire, it's in the woods. Just go where the fire is, well say you're a surprise guest,” Gawain was still talking as the doors shut behind him.

Both Priamus and a mollified Agravaine were present at the campfire later. 

“I'm glad you aren't possessed any more. The demon was making you very stressed and mean, and made you not want to hang out with us. It's gone now,” Galahad explained to his victim with all sincerity.

“Uh-- right. Thank you?” Agravaine said, not sure how to respond.

The rest of the campers were gathered around Priamus, interviewing him intently as to his identity and intentions. He was handling it fairly well. When they asked a question he didn't know how to respond to, he would answer in a foreign language and refuse to explain. The conversation quieted, and Dinadan, sensing it was his time to shine, pulled out a lute, which was, he explained, like a guitar but worse, and evil.

“Alright, Galahad you get a request, you're the man of the hour.” 

Galahad was immediately bombarded with other campers shouting suggestions, but his newfound successful-ritual confidence won out, and he didn't bow to the demands of his peers.

“Please play something by Johnny Cash. Thank you,” He added politely, and sat back down on the ground. 

They didn't have enough chairs for everyone, and the councillors had agreed it was unfair for them to have chairs if everyone couldn't, so they arranged themselves around the fire on logs, rocks and piles of leaves.

“Great choice,” Dinadan said approvingly, and began. As Dinadan was playing the final chords, new voices rose up with demands. 

Three of them, Brunor, Clariassant and Mordred, had formed a coalition, and successfully bullied Dinadan into playing the scariest songs they could think of. They were eventually overthrown by Gareth, Elyan, and Morien, who were in turn overthrown by Loholt, Feirefiz and Gingalain, where were nearly overthrown again by Mordred, Morien, Brunor, Elyan and Galahad, before the councillors decided that it was their turn to pick songs. The matter of when it was Dinadans turn was not discussed.

He put up with it fairly well for a while, playing Lancelot's sad sea shanties and Gawain's Fleetwood Mac. He drew the line at Lamorak, who refused to listen when explained that electric guitar was not easy to translate to lute, and didn't know where to begin on Elaine's request for “the sound of waves crashing, and birds singing,” but at that point it had grown late enough and dark enough that the lute could be put away, and they began making noises about sending the campers to bed. This meant they had another good hour.

“Can we tell scary stories? Please?” Mordred begged. There was general, if from some areas halfhearted, agreement. 

“Alright. But-- I need some people to go back to the cabin, and watch over everything, we can't leave them too long. How about,” Gawain pretended to scan the assembled, as if he didn't already know who would not be staying for scary stories. “Percival, Elyan, Feirefiz and Gingalain go back to their cabins. Aggs, would you go with them?”

“That's not my job,” Agravaine insisted, refusing his brother's offer of clemency.

“Don't say I didn't try. Elaine?”

Elaine agreed to this, and accompanied the selected away. 

Oddly, Gawain had no more position of authority than the rest of them. He was just a surprisingly good camp counsellor, and it was usually easier to go allow with whatever he felt was best. Even if it meant putting up with his ridiculous point system. 

The remaining group settled in around the fire, which had helpfully decided to begin burning low.

“Ground rules. Nothing too horrific, no graphic violence. Nothing, uh, libertine. And don't do the ones everyone's heard before.” Gawain made this pronouncement and settled back.

Despite Gawain, they started with the old standards. The Girl With the Green Ribbon, Aren't You Glad You Didn't Turn on the Light, The Vanishing Hitchhiker. The councillors had heard them all before, and so had at least some of the kids, if their less-than-terrified expressions were anything to go by.

“It’s already past nine,” Agravaine pointed out, for no reason, none at all.

“If we head to bunks by ten, that's still a good nine hours till they'll have to get ready for breakfast at eight,” Lamorak reasoned, very unhelpfully.

“Great point Lamorak. Thanks, Lamorak.” Agravaine said, in a voice seething with deep dislike.

Gawain clapped his hands. “Let's do one more good one, huh?”

“I have one,” Mordred said quickly. “I have a really good one.”

Gawain, to his credit, only hesitated a moment before ceding the floor.

“A long time ago, but not, all things considered, that long,”Mordred began, “In Gévaudan, which is a lot like here, people started going missing. That was frightening. But it was more frightening when they started being found.”

He paused just a moment for effect and leaned forward. “They were found with their throats torn out, their flesh devoured, mangled so awfully that they were unreco--”

Gawain gave him a meaningful look, and he cut himself off.

“Anyway. The victims were women and children mainly, anyone outside the boundaries of civilization. Who wandered into the woods.”

He paused again, letting the sounds of the forest around them do his work for him. “They began to see it, as it grew bolder. It was a massive beast like a wolf, but big as a horse, black as the night, with white teeth and eyes glowing red like the devil’s. It was fast, and quiet, and  _ hungry.  _ All who saw it said it was no mere wolf, no natural creature. Some thought it was a punishment, sent from God.”

This comment seemed to affect Galahad in particular, who shivered. 

Mordred smiled. “I have been saying ‘it’, haven't I. I should be saying ‘they,’ because soon reports came of attacks happening simultaneously. Then two beasts, one slightly smaller, were seen together. Then the beast was seen again, with its young. And with the young, grew the hunger. Hundreds had fallen to the Beast of Gévaudan, most children. It started attacking larger groups, attacking in the daylight, on the road, even on the edges of town. Nowhere and no one was safe.”

“The King announced, finally, that something would be done. A fancy Captain with big ambitions was sent out into the countryside. He rallied the men and they began scouring the land as a unified force. Finally, they glimpsed a black shape moving in the trees. They shot at it, but the bullets just bounced off, it didn't even bleed. It seemed to predict the movements of the group, as if it were very intelligent-- or if it were human.”

The councillors exchanged a look, wondering if perhaps they should stop him. But Mordred continued before they could, his voice growing quieter, but just as intense. “A simple Hunter took it upon himself to end it. He believed the creatures were beasts from hell, and so he went to a priest and had hand made, silver bullets blessed by the holy man. Then, on the slopes of Mount Mouchet, he took a shot, and hit. The beast was dead.”

There was a collective sigh of relief, which Mordred allowed them a second to languish in. “The people gathered around the beast, which was a large black wolf, and when it was cut open, the partially digested remains of its last victim were found. There was rejoicing, the Hunter was rewarded.”

‘And then,” he continued, voice now almost a whisper, “a week later, two young children were playing outside, in the sunshine. They were found with their throats torn out. A dozen more victims followed in quick succession. More wolves were killed, but the attacks did not stop. Eventually, they petered out on their own-- there was no final victory over the beast. People still went missing, every once and awhile. Perhaps it learned to eat all of the body. Perhaps it moved on. Who knows where it is now. Where they are.”

Somewhere out in the forest, a branch cracked, and they all jumped. Mordred grinned thinly. “People go missing all the time, in the woods.” 

There was a long second of silence. Then another.

“Okay,” Said Gawain finally, “That was really good, Mordred. I think it's time to head in for the night.”

“Hm.” Said Lancelot, a distant look in his eyes.

“Lancelot, you take Gareth, Brunor and Galahad back to Cabin Benoic with Dinadan. Aggs, would you take--”

“That's not my job!” he managed to squeak out in protest. He was very pale.

Gawain rolled his eyes. “Alright, I'll take them then. You stay here and put out the fire. Dinadan can take Morien, Cliges and Loholt back to Cabin Listenesse. So Mordred and Claire are with me.”

He stood and the pair rushed over, the rest assembling themselves into the requested groups.

“Wait,” Agravaine pointing accusingly at Lamorak, “He's not doing anything! Why can't he take his own damn cabin?”

“Dont fucking swear,” Mordred said, sticking his tongue out.

Gawain was already walking away. “Mordred's right, don't swear. And he's locking up the boathouse.”

“I'm the only one with the keys. And it's my job.”

Agravaine accepted this reluctantly. Whatever he felt about it was immediately superseded anyway, by the realization that he was now going to be alone in the woods, and his job was to  _ get rid of the fire,  _ leaving him completely in the dark. He stood stock-still for a long moment. The sound of footsteps from the groups heading to the cabins was already fading into the distance.

“I don’t think werewolf stories are very creepy,” Lamorak said thoughtfully, still seated by what remained of the fire.

“Congratulations, fuck you. Why are you still here?” Agravaine put his hands inside his pockets to hide the fact that they were shaking.

“Thought you might not mind the company.”

“Oh.” Personal dislike was circumstantially superseded by cowardice. “Fine.” 

“The problem with werewolf stories,” Lamorak continued, though no one had asked, “Is that werewolves are too sexy to be scary.”

Agravaine ignored this, and began scattering the ashes with a stick, keeping them within the rock circle. Then he poured the bucket of water they had brought for that purpose over the ashes, mixing them with the stick.

“Your silence on the werewolf issue is damning.”

Agravaine waited, giving the ashes a good while. “I-- I don’t think werewolves are sexy. I don't know why I have to say that.”

“That's so mean,” Lamorak said, pretending to be hurt. “What if there's a werewolf in the woods listening to this, and you just broke his heart.”

“Good. They don't exist and also eat people, so I hope he's crying.”

“Stone cold,” Lamorak shook his head sadly, “Maybe you were the real monster here.”

Agravaine, trying to look like he wasn't a little amused, bent down to tentatively check the ashes. “Speaking of cold, the fire is out.”

He stood, facing the darkness and the direction of the cabins. It wasn't a long walk, really. Squaring his shoulders and trying not to think of anything, he headed off with quick steps. After a few, he stopped.

“Why are you following me.”

“The boathouse is this direction.”

It wasn't. But they made the walk to the cabins in companionable silence, Lamorak leaving for the boathouse only once they had emerged from the trees and into the weak light shining from windows and overhead lights. 

“Made it back alright, then?” Gawain asked when he entered, maybe a little guilty.

“Yeah, obviously. It's like a half-mile at most.” Agravaine closed the door to the councillors cabin behind him. “Sorry, thanks.” 

“Mhm. Great job everyone,” Gawain addressed them all sleepily from his bunk. “There’s a ‘nother one tomorrow. Night, love you…”

Who this last part was addressed to wasn't clear, but Gawain was asleep as soon as he stopped talking, or perhaps just before, so no one asked. But they took his advice, and went to bed. There would surely be a new crisis in the morning.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Campers, welcome to another day of Campelot. In 1754, François-Marie Arouet, known by his pen name Voltaire, said that…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im back babey

“Aw, shit.” Said Gawain aloud, jarring them all from sleep. “Aw, fuck.”

Blearily, Agravaine checked his phone. “It's three am. I fucking hate you.”

“We left Priamus in the woods,” Gawain mumbled, with deep chagrin.

The rest of them processed this information, and there was a beat of silence.

“I vote we go back to sleep,” Dinadan offered. “Either he’s already been eaten by the beast or whatever, or he’ll live till morning.”

“Seconded,” Lamorak agreed. “His fault for wandering off.”

“Third. Fuck ‘im”

“Fourth, sorry.”

Gawain grimaced. Usually, Lancelot was their conscience, which was flawed enough as it was. But he stayed at his mother’s house out on the lake, and was therefore not present to object. But, Gawain reasoned to himself, Lancelot was very much in favour of sleeping, generally, so maybe he would be on their side. 

“Alright. But we’ll be out to look, bright and early. Soon as the sun’s up.”

They didn’t have to be, which was just as well because with the exception of Gawain “I rise when the sun does” Orkney, they were not, as their fearless leader suggested, out to look bright and early.

Gawain, who had, to be fair, given the area a good look around and found nothing, wandered down to the docks a bit after seven to meet Lancelot. 

He met Lancelot and Priamus.

“So, first off, no hard feelings about leaving me in the woods,” Priamus said, rather magnanimously.

“We are all very sorry Priamus,” Gawain, also magnanimously, didn’t mention that  _ Priamus  _ was the one that wandered off into the woods without telling anyone, and instead helped dock the little boat. “Good morning Lancelot. Thank you for rescuing Priamus.”

Bygones now being bygones, they dragged the rest of the councillors out of bed just in time for them to drag the kids out of their beds and all sleepily assemble at the long tables outside the main hall. 

Arthur, like an unwanted king addressing his mutinous subjects, appeared on the porch of the main building, constructed to look sort of like battlements, if you squinted, and gave a speech. He gave a speech every morning, flanked on both sides by Bedivere and Kay, who could be visibly seen counting the moments till it was over.

“Campers, welcome to another day of Campelot. In 1754, François-Marie Arouet, known by his pen name Voltaire, said that…”

Dinadan drummed his fingers on the table to some unseen conductor, and made his prediction. “This is gonna be a long one.”

“I bet you anything it lasts over ten minutes,” Lamork said unwisely.

“If it's under ten minutes you have to jump in the lake.” Agravaine said quickly.

“Okay,” Lamorak agreed, with a speed indicating he’d been disposed to agree before hearing the order.

Gawain, who wasn’t paying attention especially, but did want an excuse for docking Cabin Listeniesse points, immediately set himself to the problem of bringing Arthur’s speech to a speedy end.

The solution which presented itself seemed obvious to him, if not to anyone else. 

“Did you hear the government is going to pass a bunch of laws cracking down on small-scale laundering fronts?” Gawain said mildly, quiet enough that it could ostensibly be believed a private remark, loud enough that it wasn’t. Arthur stopped abruptly, in the middle of an involved and ill-constructed metaphor about being turned into a fish. His face turned rather pale.

“Er, well, have a nice day then campers. Tally ho. Gawain, please see me in my office, thank you.”

He abruptly turned on his heel and retreated inside, Gawain following smugly. Breakfast commenced.

“That was cheating,” Lamorak protested, beginning to think he’d been conned and wondering why he’d volunteered himself in the first place.

Dinadan briefly weighed his desire to see Gawain fail against his love for ridicule. “Let’s hold a vote. I’m for the bet standing.”

“Standing,” Agravaine seconded.

“Standing,” Elaine said for third.

Lancelot had been occupied with doodling on a napkin, and wasn’t really paying attention, but was loath to contradict. “Uh, standing?”

“You bastard.”

“I’m sorry Lamorak.”

“I’m not,” Dinadan chimed in.

Lamorak admitted defeat. “Fine, fine. I’ll do it after we get back from town this afternoon.”

Every week they went into town with Arthurs checkbook to buy the supplies that weren’t bulk ordered. There was enough room in the car for three children to accompany, for the thrill of mild civilization and the derelict Chuck-e-Cheese that had been freed from management and was now run by bored teens and a distasteful man named Mark.

They had a system to choose these three campers, engineered by Gawain, which was intended to instil social equality and disrupt the formation of hierarchies. Whether or not it worked, it was a fascinating glimpse into his psyche. 

He would hand out slips of paper and pens, and each camper would select a camper beside themselves who they felt most deserved to go into town. Thir honesty in this was assured by colour coding the slips, each camper having a distinct colour. Then, the slips were collected. Gawain counted them, and then went out to announce who would get to go that week. Those selected were the campers, one from each cabin, who received the least number of votes.

“Alright, this week it looks like its Mordred, Dindrane and Morien.”

“Mordred always gets to go,” Clarissant complained.

He stuck his tongue out. “Stop voting for me then.”

“Remember, the selections are a direct result of your votes, so any perceived inequity could be resolved on your own,” Gawain reminded them, and the argument was dropped.

“This is fucking machiavellian,” Dinadan said, more with fascination that censure. 

“Someone with a psych degree could probably write many books about him and never run out of material,” Lamorak noted, and none of them disagreed. Nevertheless, they let Gawain do as he was wont. So far it had worked out. 

So, after breakfast the lucky three were loaded into the car with Dinadan, who was deemed responsible enough to be trusted with Arthur’s checkbook, and Lamorak, who could lift heavy things and drive. These were also the only things on his resume. 

For those remaining at camp, the day would be an unambitious one. With two less counselors, they couldn't really go traipsing into the woods or boating or to the archery range. So Saturday was indoor arts and crafts day, mainly. 

After about an hour of trying in panic to supervise about ten more kids that were usually in the art room, Lancelot was granted succour by Elaine, who was the world's premier expert, it seemed, in friendship bracelets. Most of them were lured away by the siren song of pony bead lizards, leaving only Percival, Gareth and Galahad in the quiet back of the art room with Lancelot and Gawain. 

“Whatcha up to bud,” Gawain asked the last of these three, who was working on something with intense concentration. Galahad's psyche was a matter of constant low level worry for him.

Galahad pulled back his hands to reveal the work.

“Ah,” said Gawain, uncomprehending. 

“It's a Catherine Wheel.” He explained. “I wanted to put a little Saint Catherine on it, but-- I can't make a good person shape with the clay.”

Gawain nodded thoughtfully. He had enough younger brothers to know that violence was a natural instinct in children, and there was no harm in it. “Huh. I think we could find a doll around here somewhere, that you could put historical clothes on and impale. You want to do that?”

This was agreeable, and he was soon happily engaged in applying red paint to the unfortunate marionnette, with the rapt attention of Percival. Gareth was coloring the pen drawings of various Pokemon Lancelot had drawn for him. The resemblance to any Nintendo property was loose at best, limited as they were by Gareth's memory and descriptive ability, but he seemed happy enough with the product.

The morning passed uselessly into afternoon with a brief break for lunch, and found them all in much the same places they were before, except that now Elaine was teaching them how to crochet, and Lancelot ran out of printer paper. There was a slightly tremulous knock on the door of the Joyous Gard.

Agravaine was greeted with a surprising chorus of cheers from the children, who were inexplicably fond of him. He muttered something like hello and rushed to the back with his head down. 

“Hey, Aggs!”Gawain said cheerfully.

“Hi Agravaine,” Lancelot said, a bit less cheerfully.

“Aggs look! It’s Houndour! Kind of!” Gareth held up the paper like a diploma.

The color palette was correct anyway. “That’s… nice Gareth. Uh, Gawain Arthur wants to see you in his office. L-- everyone got back and-- you’ll see. Anyway.” He hurried out, and Gawain reluctantly followed him, waving goodbye to the assembly at the door. 

“What’s up Aggs? You look more miserable than usual.”

Agravaine frowned. “I don’t know, I don't know everything. God, what is that on your arm?”

Gawain rolled up his sleeve proudly. “Look, it’s a cool hawk! Lancelot drew it. We ran out of paper. There’s a horse on my other arm.”

“Disgusting, I wish I hadn’t asked.” 

“Boo! Mean! Maybe if you weren’t so mean you would have a--”

“Hey fuck you!”

They arrived at the office, the group who had left loitering around the front. Agravaine stormed off into the hall, ignoring any shouted greetings

“Uh oh,” Gawain said, surveying them. “Oh no. Mordred what-- oh no.”

They had acquired battle damage. Morien had lost his jacket, Dindrane looked teary. Mordred's pale blonde hair had been unevenly dyed purple. Lamorak was holding a tissue up to his forehead, which was bleeding. Dinadan just looked unspeakably tired.

“I’ll tell you later,” Dinadan said, slumping against the wall as if he lacked the energy to hold himself up.

“Hey Gawain!” Mordred seemed the only one of them in a good mood. “We had a fun morning.”

“Yeah, I bet bud. I’ll be right back out in a bit and until then you guys could get cleaned up?”

The question was asked to Mordred, but directed elsewhere.

Dinadan slid down the wall to sit in the dirt. 

“Yeah, we’ll do that,” Lamorak said. Gawain went into the main hall.

“Gawainnnnnnnnnnn…………..” Arthur moaned, collapsed over his desk. 

“Hey, kid,” Kay said.

When Gawain was younger, he’d thought that Kay was, maybe, thirty five. The first day he started as a counselor rather then camper, he learned that Kay was four years older than him. The dynamic was, therefore, baffling to him.

“What’s this about, Kay?”

“We’re dead. We’re sunk. It’s over. Gawain I’m doomed.” Arthur said, face still pressed against the cheap IKEA desk.

“Will one of you please tell me what is going on?”

Kay handed him a slip of paper. “A developer bought out the land and is kicking us out.”

“You rent this place? Why didn’t I know that?” Gawain scanned the paper. It seemed to be a legitimate notice from the landowners, something called Logres Land Holdings Inc. 

“We don’t pay rent, I won the right to build and reside here in a bet when I was twelve. God, twenty years…”

Gawain almost dropped the paper. “You’re _ thirtytwo? _ ” 

Arthur didn’t address this comment, though it hurt him deeply. Gawain turned his attention back to the paper. “The buyer isn’t a company, it’s one guy. He’s named Lucius Augustus.” 

“We have three weeks to clear out, it says. Everything left behind gets demolished, from the road to the lake, twenty miles on both sides,” Kay said grimly.

“Fuck,” Gawain said quietly. “This sucks. Why-- why are you just telling me?”

Arthur waved his hand vaguely, still not looking up. “You’re good with the, the uh, the what are they called,”

“The children?”

“Those. It’s your job to break it to them. We’re sending them home after next Friday. Don’t tell anyone yet, wait till I give you the go-ahead.” 

“Fuck!” He said again. It was a stupid thing to be upset over, of course, and he was never upset, anyway. But he was a little upset. “Who knows?”

Kay answered, Arthur approaching catatonic. “Us three, Bedivere, and the kid who got the mail. Lanky, with a guitar?”

“Dinadan. It’s a lute.” Gawain ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. Thank you for your faith in me, Uncle. Will that be all?”

Arthur shrugged. After a moment, Gawain saw himself out.

The three children must have been reintegrated into society, and Dinadan away to sleep or drown himself or something. Lamorak was still loitering, starting up when the door opened and then relaxing, disappointed, to see Gawain.

“You probably want to know what happened, then?”

Gawain stopped on the stairs, having almost forgotten the disastrous town visit. “Oh. Yeah, yeah.”

“Are you like, good?”

“I’m great!” He clapped his hands together. Refocus. “Let’s get everyone together and you can tell the whole story at dinner. Then, to destress, we’ll throw you in the lake.”

“We’re still doing that then?”

Gawain set off to gather the campers for dinner, yelling over his shoulder. “Yes! It’s important to me!”

The children were roused, and led from the Gard, all interrogating the returning three for the events. Gawain was sure his youngest brother would tell them something horrifying that he’d have to deal with later, but that was a problem for later.

“Are you alright?” Lancelot asked him quietly in aside, having sensed Gawain's altered mood, even if no one else had.

“Got bad news. I’ll tell you in private.” Gawain took his hand reassuringly. “Nothing word ending, don’t worry.”

The councillors were gathered around their table, Dinadan staring blankly into the distance. 

“So what happened to you guys?” Elaine asked curiously, leaning over the table to grab a bowl. 

“I died,” Dinadan said, refusing to elaborate.

“Don’t be a baby. He didn’t die, he just got locked in a retro coffin, and then had to run a bit.” Lamorak was dismissive. “I had it way worse. People threw rocks at me.”

“What the fuck,” Agravaine said. “Those lucky people.”

Lamorak looked almost hurt. “Do you want to hear the story, or not?”

“I’m not strong enough to live through it again,” Dinadan said distantly. “I need to see you thrown in a lake first.”

“Yeah, alright,” Gawain piled more food on his plate, mood rapidly improving, “We’ll get the campers in bed, then reconvene at the lake. We’ll go on an arduous after dinner walk to tire them out quickly.”

“Please no,” Dinadan said.

Gawain smirked and patted him on the shoulder. “You’re excused. We’ll Get Aggs to come instead.”

“No you won’t,” Agravaine insisted, crossing his arms. “Stop dragging me into Councillor activities, I’m not a councillor.”

“Aw, come on Aggs. You’ll have fun!”

“No I won’t”

“Please?”

“No.”

They reconvened after dinner. Agravaine found himself accompanying, against all statements to the contrary.

“Are we even going anywhere, Gawain? Are you just leading us in circles in the woods till you get bored?”

“Don’t you have faith in me?” Gawain moved aside a branch.

“No.”

He frowned. “You’re so mean to me! We’re going to a lovely meadow. Jerk.”

“That just means we’re going to turn around at the first clearing he finds,” Lamorak added helpfully.

“This is bullying. I’m being bullied. You two are banished, go to the back of the cavalcade.” Gawain pointed behind him into the trees. “Go, get.”

They did. 

“I can’t believe you want to throw rocks at me,” Lamorak groused. “You can if you really want, though.”

Agravaine gave him a weird look “Huh? That was a joke. I don’t actually want to stone you to death, or anything.”

“Oh. Good!” Lamorak fell into silence, this enough to put today in the win column.

They wandered around till they found a random meadow, and turned around. The campers were tired enough to go to sleep, allowing the councillors to gather by the docks.

“Alright. Who gets to push him in?” Dinadan asked, collapsing onto the ground. “Not me. I don’t want to get up.”

Elaine and Lancelot also declined.

“Brother against brother, huh,” Gawain said with a grin. “Rock paper scissors?”

Lamorak was standing on the end of the dock. “Do I get a say?”

“No,” Agravaine said. “Okay, rock, paper--”

And he pushed Lamorak into the lake. The assembly cheered.

“You cheating bastard!” Gawain said, offended.

Agravaine just shrugged, with a rare smile. Lamorak resurfaced laughing, and hauled himself onto the dock, pushing sopping wet hair out of his face. “That was fucking great, Agravaine. You’re a class act.”

“No he isn’t,” said Gawain quickly.

“Thanks. Fuck you, Gawain.”

“Anyway,” Lamorak shrugged. “Story time. Dinadan, background music.”

“No,” Dinadan muttered. 

“Loser. Alright, so it went like this:”


End file.
